They keep on coming. I went for a run at lunchtime, nice and easy, 30 minutes, walking interspersed, and it was a struggle. Worse, I felt the effects all afternoon, and feel them even now. I feel sandbagged.
What is it? Dehydration? Lack of sleep? Heavy pollen? Am I that out of shape?
Mostly the latter, I’m afraid. I’ve run very little over the last six months, and it’s been only—what?—three weeks since I started up again. I’m 52 years old, and I weigh 211 pounds—15 pounds over my fighting weight. I should just be thankful that my knees are holding up. I’m lucky I can run at all.
Can I let go of impatience? Can I accept the reality of where I am and embrace it? Can I just keep doing the work, day after day, time after time, humbly and patiently and without straining? Can I be satisfied with incremental progress, not despair and throw in the towel?
I’ve got big dreams, and that’s good, up to a point. But day to day I need to let go of expectations and just be with what’s real. That’s the only way to keep going. Enjoy what’s real.
There were brief stretches today when I felt good, took pleasure in movement. Let me not neglect to appreciate these moments, even as I work to make them last longer. Let me remember strong, sure runs in Spokane and Tallahassee and Bloomington and State College, and dream of repeating the feeling of those runs, without trying to force it. Let me, in the words of the WWII hero Dick Winters, “hang tough” and keep going out there.
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